A castle can be mighty. It can represent the end of armies and the failure of tyrants. But no matter how high or enduring the walls they can only face in one direction.
With grim determination she keeps her shield facing Shamash. Blow after blow crashes against her shield from the front - she refuses to give Shamash an inch, refuses to give him even a breath of satisfaction. Her shield is as light as air and her reactions are as quick as thunder. She endures all of the High God's wroth without giving an inch.
But there's no defence against Marianne. Her blows shake her, make her stumble, knock her to her knees. She can only carry one world on her shoulders and so she fights like her second opponent isn't there at all. Her only hope is her betrayer sees her frustrated tears and takes mercy on her. She's driven lower and lower until she's on her knees, bruised and battered between two storms.
Robena hefted her axe from her shoulders and brought it down in front of her. She thought for a moment, patiently rehearsing the action in her head, before breaking into a slow, loping run.
She'd always thought that the principles of mounted combat still applied even when on foot. Reach, weight, speed. It was the same way monsters fought. A sword and shield were so... situational in comparison. A highly technical combination that required so much skill and precision to pull off, skill that by no means everyone carried with them. Perhaps a grandmaster swordswoman would be able to perform a perfect sidestep of her incoming charge, or perform an angled parry with her shield that perfectly diverted the force of it. Bards told of such things. She'd never seen it herself.
She held the axe like a spear, the blunt metal tip of it held straight and she pushed all of her strength and her charge into it. Her opponent caught it on her shield but she was no mythic blademaster and her shield bore no ancient enchantments. Instead she simply took the impact of a horse's kick to the arm and went over backwards. Robena didn't slow, using her opponent's shield to keep her blade arm away and pinned under her body as she fell. She took the Azure Knight's helm by the crest with her right hand and pulled - and her mailed left came up in case it was needed to close the matter out.
The Hermetician steeples his fingers, dragged down by thought. The question you have asked seems to be more complex than you first imagined.
"We..." he said it like it was a confession, "do not make Engines."
That was a surprise.
"The Order of Hermes does not understand the process. We... claim to. We do not, not truly. We recover them. We dare Poseidon's wrath to pull them from the deep. We..." he buzzed in a flustered, awkward way, and then backtracked abruptly. "We understand the mechanics! Every gear, screw, and bolt! Every secret of containment and enhancement! We have built entirely functional Engines that to this day bring divine light to the great Caravels. But... we do not understand the spark. We cannot ignite them once they have gone dark. We can transfer a burning star from a damaged engine into a new one we have made but we cannot bring a new one to life. Not since the Great War."
Once this shame had left him, fiery energy exploded through him and he slammed a parchment scroll hidden somewhere within his robes onto the floor in a passion. "And it is not as though we have not investigated the principle! We have done heroic research into this topic! We have diagrams, instructions and even rediscovered the ancient Tauyk Drive Yards where thousands of Engines were once made! We have petitioned the gods with our questions! And yet, no matter how faithfully we follow the rituals of ignition no new sparks burn!"
A skeletal metal hand emerged from the robes cupped the technomancer's chin. "It is not our knowledge that is flawed. It is the galaxy that is wrong. Something has happened, the natural laws have changed, some mighty god has decided to deny the universe new Engines. At first we thought it was Lord Apollo, who was indeed deeply involved in the process of ignition - the old rituals involve a great deal of purity of heart - but the Brilliant Lord has indicated that he does not hold us in disfavour. Perhaps he does, but if so he is keeping it a deep secret, and applying this same judgement to other groups that attempt the same thing. It seems unlikely. We do not know."
Dolce!
A blue light within the doorway. A single spark like a star.
You wish Hades wielded the supernatural in this moment. You wish he was a titan of smoke and charcoal skin and twisted beard. You wish he spoke to you in the voice of the divine. You wish he wasn't just a tall, spindly man in a suit vest who was striding towards you with a mouth locked in a line of restrained fury. If he appeared as a god rather than a man it would be easier to imagine that he wasn't about to murder you.
"What," hissed the Lord of the Dead, "do you think you are doing here?"
Soft hands rest upon your shoulder even as you stagger backwards into the arms of Hera. "I sent him," said she behind you, voice as soft as a silk noose.
"How dare you?" said Hades, and his voice became even softer as his fury built. "How dare you!? In my domain? On my ship? You would tempt them to contravene my laws?"
You can feel Hera's fingers tighten around your shoulder a moment. There's nothing of it in her voice but you're suddenly aware that she's worried. Like she might have miscalculated. But there's not even a whisper of it in what she says next. "Of course I would never dream of contravening your laws, brother Hades. I am your guest here. I am not here to investigate your secrets. I have merely bought a servant."
"A servant?" said Hades, eyes like burning oceans.
"Yes," said Hera smoothly. "Quite apart from everything else, you simply have a mess back there. Little Dolce here is a good and diligent servant, quite capable of keeping his mouth shut. He's merely here to tidy up."
The Lord of the Dead stared into your eyes. His expression has still not cracked. You fear it might never. "Fine," he said. "Clean. Organize. And do not let his mind wander, sister Hera. I can find another crew if I must."
The gods passed away from the world like shadows cast by birds, and again you are left before that open doorway spilled with flowers.
Alexa!
A chase like this can hardly be contained. It erupts from the training room and into the corridors, and it goes, and it goes and it goes, feet pounding and hearts as the thrill of acceleration overpowers everything else...
And then your feet leave the ground.
You've run directly into one of the corridors that the Princess and the Hermetic previously stripped of grav-plating and haven't gotten around to replacing yet. And so you tumble together weightlessly down a seemingly infinite corridor carried by all the momentum of your earlier sprint and it feels like you've run so fast you've started flying.
Oh, is this what space is, Alexa? Is this what could have been if people didn't drag their gravity up with them into the void? You know how to fight aboard ships but never before have you swum in the sea, and you drift together at once timelessly and at the speed of thunder. On your left are endless windows that open up on an aching vista everlasting, on your right are all those same stars caught in amber-eyed reflection.
Bella!
You'd never expected to see strength in Mynx's eyes. Mynx who would discard her whole identity to avoid a problem, Mynx who'd stab you in the back so she could outrageously flirt with Redana, Mynx who had all the consistency and sticky sweetness of strawberry jam. How was she capable of looking kind and wise enough to understand your feelings, how could she be someone strong and stable enough to hold you up in this moment?
(She wasn't really. This was an act, surely. She'd just never had a serious role to play before now...)
"I don't think," Mynx spoke slowly, and there was something in that cadence that reminded you of Redana - that this wasn't a guess, it was the considered opinion of someone who specialized in impersonating Redana, "Redana has space for more than one thing in her head at any point in time. It's what gives her that presence - if you've got her focus you're the only thing that matters. It's wonderful when you have it..." she trailed off a bit. "I don't think she stopped caring about you, Bella. I think she just doesn't remember right now. There's some other thought burning in her head. We just need to remind her."
"Fascinating..." murmured Ailee. "And ow. Quit it. Ow! Knock it off, assholes! I'm trying to learn about this stupid piece of junk! Don't give me that, you bought me here."
Impatience builds within her like static electricity. It wants to just be done with all this bullshit and get the conversation to its conclusion - a conclusion where she is no longer getting opportunistically stung by panicking bees. She rolls her jaw. The difference between an Archmage and some sort of vice elemental was her ability to focus those sensations on what mattered.
Her big book of nightmare translations is out again and she's flicking through it to the chapter on deranged public transportation infrastructure. "Warning acknowledged," she stated as her tattoos glowed, letting herself be known and heard. "Hello, Wormwood Station. I am the Chief Inspector. Calm your flailing. It is unseemly. We will discuss this over tea like civilized Aspects."
Many horses are quicker than Apricot on their hooves, but there isn't an equine in the world who can hold a candle to the speed with which he can come to a stop. He even lowers his head to chomp at a cluster of buttercups he saw by the side of the lists. It's an incredible act of disrespect but it's also a calculated one - her warhorse is smart enough to determine instantly when her heart is too conflicted to keep him under control. Horse like this can't be driven half-heartedly.
And Apricot's been here before. Some stupid kid who doesn't know when she's beaten, who thinks that 'skill' and 'determination' are magic balms that'll add two feet to their height and two hands to their biceps, up against a knight who's trying to figure out how to gently disabuse them. Sometimes a curse is involved, but it doesn't need to be. What's important is that Robena is too distracted to put her back into cussing him out, and that's the same as a ducal invitation to relax.
Robena grumbles and flicks the horse's ear irritably. He gives her a dirty look like she's the asshole here. Some squires are running over but Robena has already stepped down off the saddle and hefted her enormous wooden practice-ax over her shoulders. A forester's pose, never quite forgotten from her youth, held steady as she ponders.
She's abandoning the joust. There's only so much you can do to avoid hurting someone when several tonnes of charging horseflesh are involved. She's going to take this to the melee where her opponent has less control over what does and doesn't get hurt. She doesn't feel the need to justify this decision; everyone in attendance saw a knight drop their shield and take a body blow. Already the healers and wicker-wise will be rushing to check that nothing was pierced, but she doesn't doubt the Azure Knight will wave them off.
[Take Stock: 7. What can I observe about this curse, and what might break it?]
You work the flow of the star. You allow it to roar a little stronger, a little brighter - a trivial matter compared to what it is capable of but this celestial rounding error is the difference between life and death for everything aboard. You've had power all of your life, Redana, but it's never been so immediate as this. The flow of fire that runs through these cables is life and death. The rising roar of the engine is creation and annihilation. Thin bands of rubber and polyalloy separate you from the primordial forces. The changes you make are immediate. The world you want to build comes into being exactly so. This isn't a dance of politics and shadows and hearts, this is immediate and visceral and percussive and you understand why your mother still spends so much time working with machinery.
You work it correctly. The Hermetician clicks his approval.
"The transition will take an hour, so we must withdraw above decks and wait," he said. "You did well, princess. The lesson is concluded. You may ask any questions you want of me, and I shall do my best to answer." Something about the way he says that implies that this is a valuable treasure he is offering, and is almost hesitant in doing so.
Dolce!
"As you do, so shall I do," said Hera, accepting the bargain and wiping away all stress and fear from Vasilia's brow.
The Plousios is vast. All ships are. A shuttle may be able to make trips from orbit into space, or even within a system, with a stockpile of solid fuel but the power needed to sail the void at speeds fast enough to matter requires the infinite willpower of a true Engine. Unparalleled amidst all the sciences of humanity, Engines are shrunken and bound stars roaring out with enough energy to warm a world and with lifespans in the millions of years. It's a miracle that they're possible at all, and it's a miracle that they can be shrunken so much. But eventually miracles run out and the smallest possible size for an Engine is still enormous.
And when you're already building something as enormous and complex as an Engine adding a ship the size of a small city to it is a rounding error in the budget.
You pass through gardens, Dolce - plants still steady, still gently dripping cherry blossoms despite the barnacles and coral encrusted on their trunks. You walk down a corridor surfaced with the pearls and dusting shells of clams, feeling the soft stones gently crumble beneath your hooves. You find a swiftly running river that courses through its square-cut and grassy canal banks, maintained despite the chaos by the arcane secrets of the ship. On the far bank is a structure, perhaps marble, perhaps plastic, with an open door that wildflowers in orange and pink spill from. Hop, hop, hop, across the stepping stones you go as you wander deeper and deeper.
Alexa!
The fire does not stop dreaming of apocalypse just because it is contained within the hearth. It burns and burns even though there is nowhere to go, burns and burns in the hope one spark might spread, burns and burns because it still has fuel and will not stop so long as it can. It burns and burns promising the death of cities and the end of empires but instead all it provides is warmth. It does not become tame, but in time it does burn low. You can feel tendons slowly relax and fierce muscles soften and for a moment you think the storm has passed and she is done.
And then she slips her tail inside your shirt and uses it to tickle your sides and this is a mockery of the sacred sport of wrestling, Isty.
Bella!
You dream of lava. Heat, heat, heat. Melting, melting, melting. The boundaries between yourself and the surrounding world indistinct, the water of your body extending out like Beljani's virus and saturating everything around you while still being as sharply connected to your nerves as your missing whiskers. You are so hot that you have to spread as thin as butter across the bread of a bad girl just so you have enough nerves to feel every molten drip of it. You can feel a breath on your outermost layer and it feels like a blizzard. You can smell jasmine and it forces your brain up from the molten void of non-existence to experience it. You should be boiling but you can't, you should be scalded but you aren't, you're trapped at ninety-nine, suspended on the intersection of liquid, gas and solid.
When you finally wake you're ice cold.
Your sweat has soaked into the blankets so totally it's like lying on a leaky waterbed, and it has since faded from molten hot to ice cold. The light is dim but still conjures sparks. You're so dry that you've downed two of the glasses of water laid out by your bed before you've fully processed their presence - processed the plurality of them. Half a dozen cups of different shapes and sizes, pillaged indiscriminately and filled with water waiting for you. This isn't your bed either, it's not small, it's not hard... it's all softness and blankets and fluff.
And you're there. By the door, in the maid's place, waiting while your mistress sleeps - no. That's not you, that's Mynx, waiting with all the patience and discipline she learned from watching you tending to Redana's illnesses.
She's not surprised. Shamash may have wanted a fair fight but there was no way the Annunaki would have risked their god actually losing in the public eye. That would be the end of them. So instead she has to fight their fleet and some shadow-realm sorcerer all at once.
She sets her shield.
Then let them come.
Light and fire smashes at her shield. Chains and blades claw and snap at her ankles. She holds. The weight of it pushes her back. The sand she stands upon is as soft as her heart and it will not let her brace, so no matter how deep her feet sink into it it will not stop her from being pushed back. Light and fire, wielded by one who has tamed the stars. Back. Down. Break.
But sand is too strong to break, and so is her heart.
The smoke and fire clears and she shines amidst it all, cursed spear in one hand, radiant shield in the other. She holds Shamash's precious weapon above her head in triumph, in threat. She holds it as though to cast it right back at the Annunaki as Leonidas once cast at Xerxes. Will she make the throw the Spartan could not? Will she be satisfied, as he was, in making a god bleed?
She brings the weapon down upon her knee and shatters it in halves.
"I might have taken your life, Shamash," she calls as she stands, legs trembling beneath her but still holding her proud. "But I won't. You alone are no threat. Instead I will take every one of the devices you use to hurt others and leave you powerless."
She was a Phantom Thief after all.
[Marking Afraid. Clearing Angry by destroying something valuable. 14 on Never Give Up, inspiring the team]
"It is a miracle we survived," said Iskarot. He is not speaking in generalities - he is acknowledging the Bloody Handed God's influence. "Imagine how much worse this would have been if we had made the mistake of planning this."
Standing shivering in the void[1], watching the severed upper half of your space-ship drift away into the rainbow darkness, the zenlike nature of this statement is difficult to understand. Perhaps it is one of the more advanced mysteries of the Hermetic Cult. Perhaps you should ask Bella to take notes.
"Come," buzzed the Hermetician, making his way back into the ship's interior. "It is cold outside."
[1] It may be questioned by the inexperienced or the alien how such a lackadaisical approach is taken to the void of space. This is no magic of Imperial blood or Hermetic technology; this is a simple truth of this galaxy. All life is so miraculously bio-engineered that stepping out into the void of space without a suit is equivalent to going outside during a blizzard without a coat - unpleasant and potentially bad for you if sustained, but by no means immediately lethal. As to the Hermetic's ability to communicate in a vacuum, this is a product of him signalling the Princess' auspex eye.
*
"It is important to remember when performing feats of engineering in the void that you stand a great chance of angering the Prismatic Lord," Iskarot said as you hauled the massive grav-plates down the corridor. Behind you came the ocean, following you as obediently as the moon flees from Artemis. "Humans are not the only creatures that pray, and Great Poseidon has many children who he cares for. Even if you are directly favoured by him he is fickle and you must be ready for his moods. Having the assistance of Ares Spearbreaker is the greatest guarantor during times of catastrophe. I prefer to pray for the strength to survive the storm rather than pray that the storm never comes."
The engine chamber begins to flood as the grav-plates are set in place, water lapping once again at rusted and coral-scarred walls and pipes. The Hermetician took a moment to rest, and for the first time since you've met him he seems an elderly man instead of a piece of machinery wrapped in robes.
His talk of Ares is alien to you. Though not forbidden in the same way as he was during the era of Molech, the War God is disfavoured in the martial traditions of the Empire. Certainly of your many religious responsibilities as an Imperial Princess vanishingly few had to do with Ares.
"Observe," said the Hermetic. "I will set the reactor to a main sequence transition. This is a technique that can provide an emergency burst of power but makes the engine deck uninhabitable due to the heat bleed. The real art is ensuring that the sequence fails and burns itself out rather than resulting in a Starbreach, observe my actions carefully..."
Dolce!
"There are," Hera agreed. "This ship has known more than a few already."
She tapped the wall. From her expression she probably wasn't thinking of the time last week Redana cut the whole damn thing in half without telling anyone, leaving you spiraling without power in the void for hours. It would be hard not for that to be one of the first few things that comes to your mind.
"Why not take a walk?" she suggests. "The Princess has cleared the lower decks, and there are so many stories and lessons these walls conceal."
Alexa!
Isty's blows start to shift as she fights. She begins with excellent, if generic, thrust work. Warfare to be proud of. A spear is a weapon for concentrating power into a single tiny point, a precision device - a weapon of organized co-operative warfare, as you demonstrate again, and again, and again. You're better at this style of battle than her, able to disassemble the Ceronian's invisible phalanx while still holding the princess at bay.
Then she swings the weapon at you like an enormous club.
It's terrible, atrocious form - a snapped reaction of frustration and confusion. And would that warfare were fair, the frustrated and confused and hot-headedly blunderous side should be at a disadvantage. But that is not how it goes, and you are forced defensive, parrying with the haft through hammering blows bang, bang, bang until at last crack.
It is her spear not yours that has shattered in half but that does not even slow the princess whose crimson hair swirls like the bloody handprint of Ares. She fights you now with a broken half-spear in either hand, whirling like a dervish, clattering against your defenses and pushing you back. She seeks to drag this battle down into a state of anarchy and raw physicality, to get inside your guard where weapons are useless and pull you down with raw muscle.
Does she? Can she? Or are you yet able to bend this wolf to your will?
Bella!
"Oh, trivial to accomplish," Beljani said smoothly, charmingly, helpfully. No hesitation or fear as she discussed her own extinction. "Remove from me my comforts. Torment me, abuse me, treat me like an animal. Or just issue me an impossible mission and leave me in the field alone for long enough. Soon enough I'll stop identifying myself with my body and start identifying myself with the virus. When that happens there are no limits to what I might accomplish for you, Praetor."
"Praetor," said Mynx, trying to keep her voice professional, but there was a waver in it. It had been there when discussing the Rampancy of the other assassins, but it was particularly pronounced here. "Be careful. This is like a drug for her - for them. The Oratus Temple has been destroyed before for letting it get out of hand."
"Dear Mynx is just being protective," said Beljani with so much warmth in her voice that you envy Mynx that affection. "We trained together you know, before our Ascendancies? She was always prepared to do anything for the people she loved, it's what made the Grandmaster choose her as bodyguard to begin with."
Beljani, Oratus Adept A voice as sweet as opium Voice of the Divine: An Oratus can convert any individual or group of people into a Threat under her command. Self Sacrifice: While this stat is undamaged, anyone within reach of the Oratus or any of her subjects cannot bring themselves to harm the Oratus directly. Rampancy: When a Temple Assassin has reached the stage of Rampancy, it becomes a Threat to the World. It also has the ability to instantly destroy any other threats contained within the Environment.
This is not something to joust. This is something to rescue... or something to hunt.
She has seen horrors before. In the savage land of the Balkans the woods shivered at the passage of bats that walked like men. In the valleys of the Alps princesses grew fur and took up the aspects of beasts. In the holy land itself she had encountered one who had perhaps been the Prosecutor of God. A curse ran through the world that made the human form fall away, making the exterior as bestial as the interior. A nightmare that echoed time and again saw her indistinguishable from her cloak. She wore it regardless, even as half-memories of ursine talons overlaid her hands.
What quest or trial had gone so awry for this knight that she would emanate that scent of magic? What truth that couldn't be concealed within flesh was now being concealed within metal? Was this the destiny of knights? Scales and fur and savage instinct?
The words didn't come easily. Despite the music of her voice she could go days without speaking on the road. But this was different. This was her home, this was her peer. She would not go through this bout as some silent and landless vagabond. She would be known, and she would be known by any rising monster or fallen knight for her skill in defending this home.
"You ride against Robena Coilleghille," she declared, striking her lance against her shield. "Who fights for the honour of lady Constance Nim. You ride against one who has seen both horror and temptation and emerged scarred but victorious. You ride against one who can smell the curse that weighs upon it and would lift it from you. You may not know me as a hero and saviour, but I vow before the River and the Bloodless One that I shall not rest until you can once again show your face in the light. I shall unhorse you in the joust, overcome you in the melee, and best you in the contest of hearts until you are worthy of that kerchief you wear and bring no more suffering to the one who granted it to you. You who know nothing shall be made to know me, such I vow."
She lowered her visor and set her lance. Come then. Set your strength against the giantess. Test your curse against her heart and see which emerges the stronger.
[Single Combat: 7. I spend two on position and one on defending myself, striking with 4 harm and 5armour]
Ailee is fascinated. This... could this be a pure manifestation of the Heart, a vector from which its influence has spread? Could this be melted? Smelted? Recast? What properties could be hammered into it, what will might this strange bloody vector of knowledge attain with proper machining? She fetched her glasses from her pocket and crouched down in front of the spike, in front of the pages.
Soft lavender light ran along her tattoos. The Vice burned within her like a furnace. Could she read this? Could she touch this? How deep did this go? What secrets did it hide - and whose secrets might it reveal by implication?
"Curious," she signalled to the bees, blinded in this moment to the dark weight behind that word.
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